Unscathed
by ignisvolat
Summary: Your story can follow you in a physical way. It engraves itself into your skin, sometimes in small ways and other times in larger, more obvious tokens. He had his marks, his scars, tale tell signs of a labored life. Most of them did. But her? ...she, was a blank slate.


**Author's Note:**

traits of auruo's hands were inspired by cellostargalactica's fantastic _The Sunlight Girl_.

bless her face for allowing me to borrow/acknowledge them.

* * *

Hands were one of the first things he noticed about a person.

Hands are personal. Hands are expressive. Hands are capable of showing as much emotion as the eyes. They can bring comfort through warm touches, provoke fear through a clenched fist. You could tell a lot from a person in how they used and carried their hands. By the marks experiences had left in their skin. Hands showed character. They told a story.

Erd is, and always has been, an active person. His hands are rough. They have calluses in all the expected places: palms, from wooden hilts, tree bark and old brick; the curves of his fingers, from metal triggers and roof shingles; splotchy burns scattered up his wrists from sprays of titan blood that had never quite healed correctly. He has a few faded nicks, a white dash or curved cut from a childhood adventure gone awry. Erd describes himself as a dauntless child. Always the first to dare and the first to accept a dare, no matter how foolish. He had his pride, and a taste for danger to satisfy, after all. He always moved fearlessly. If his hands were caught, scratched, cut or marred, he wouldn't pull away. He grinned and bore it like any mad man would. When these injuries were questioned he'd laugh, his way of teasing a subject. 'It's a long story', he'd say, and he'd wave the hand to dismiss them.

Auruo's hands flaunt similar marks; it's part of their occupation to collect a blemish or three from the weapons and tools alone. But Auruo's were striped with remains of burns, much more precise, sharp and geometric than titan's blood could produce. They were older and fainter from time. He mentioned millwork, sometimes, furnaces and metal. A past job, a past life. One he'd cast away for heroics and grandeur. Or, so he claimed. Gunter took every word from the man's mouth with care. Because while Auruo's voice was harsh, and his words often harsher, Gunter saw how he'd take Petra's shoulder when she was worried, or how their hands would brush when they thought no one was looking. How he'd tighten his fists at whispers behind Erd's back from civilians. How, even when he spoke to his horse in the most bitter of tones, his fingers combed the stallion's mane in silent affection.

And Petra's lithe palms are misleading. They're thin but her grip is strong, and her arms stronger. A closer look reveals scarred knuckles, chipped nails and patches of skin healed over again and again until they're rough as sandpaper. They lack the faded marks and blemishes found on Erd and Auruo's skin from childhood; signs of a simpler life, not an easier one. But where her skin was tattered and her hands blistered it stood out. She would tend to the hands of her comrades first, leading to mars worse than they should be, scrapes and cuts that lingered longer than they should have. And there'd been plenty of winter days where she'd lent her gloves to an unfortunate soldier or civilian without a pair.

Hands were one of the first things he noticed about a person. Oddly, he hadn't noticed hers until today.

It'd began with the offer of coffee. She'd passed him a mug and, though brief, her fingers ghosted his. The mug was warm. Steaming. But her fingertips were ice to the touch. It'd sent goose bumps crawling up his arm, and he hadn't been able to cast the thought from his head.

And he watched her hands move in idle circles, stirring her coffee. Aimless. Bored. Uncoordinated. The spoon grasped loose between thumb and slope of her forefinger.

She had pale skin. A fitting appearance for one so filled of frost and winter. It fit snug over her muscles and bones, so it neither wrinkled nor gave her a skeletal appearance. Pale… smooth…

His brow crinkled. He realized what was so different about them.

Her knuckles lacked welts where contact would have worn the thin skin. The spaces between each finger were graceful, and her palms were vacant of calluses. Her nails were smooth, free of chips and sharp edges.

This couldn't be right.

Even as a member of the military police, she'd spent three years in training. Three years in the harsh camps, three years of dirt, climbing, sparring, deadly winters, cleaning old floors and blades. It was impossible for anyone to escape-let alone graduate in the top ten-without history carved into their flesh. But her hands were pure as untouched snow. Free of lines, scars and spots of sandpaper skin. Her hands were, by every definition of the word, perfect. Mysterious. Storyless. And he'd never seen anything like them.

This was, perhaps, why he found them so perplexing. Why he stared, awestruck and curious, as they drifted around the mug. He tried to reason how she got so far without even a scratch. But nothing worked out.

"... Shulz."

In these moments, he often lost focus. Lost connection. So when she growled his name, he didn't hear. His eyes continued to linger on the slowing twirl of her palm, and the porcelain fingers curled around a matching mug. It's not until she leans back, and they vanish beneath the table's surface, that consciousness slips back to him.

Gunter blinked. He raised his eyes to meet hers, but she busied herself with a leather strap. Her lips were drawn into a fine, taut line. She kept her eyes down and her bangs veiled most of her face.

The room they sat in was empty and quiet. Most soldiers were prepping for the day, and only a few wandered the little dining hall in search of coffee, before the morning rations ran dry. Early sunlight dripped through the windows in golden pools, reflecting from her fair palette so she looked ethereal. The sight froze him, as her chilling gaze often did.

Before he could offer an apology, or so much as speak, she snorted and pushed from the table. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her hoodie.

He thought he heard her hiss at him. A scoff, or otherwise expression of disdain, for his behavior. And he felt heat swell in his face. Embarrassment. From having been caught. For having been staring at all.

She pauses at the door, casting an over shoulder glance and frown to him. He held her gaze despite the curl in his throat, waiting for some sort of remark or snide comment. Maybe a label. 'Idiot' or 'moron' seemed to be her favorites. Or maybe she'd be more creative this time.

To his surprise, she said nothing. Instead, something in her eyes changed. Her thin brows shifted, and he noticed her gaze sink to his own hands, folded on the table before him. Gunter looked to his hands only for a second. When he looked up to her, she was gone. His eyes lingered on the door until he was certain she wouldn't return.

A sigh slipped from his lips and he bowed his head, attention dropping once more to his hands. They were large, thick, scratched and battered from years of heavy farm work, wheelbarrows and disagreements with livestock. Scarred with months of experience beyond the walls; an old gash split the center of his palm and a ring of small punctures encircled the base of one thumb.

And in the right light, stained with blood.

Her blood. Their blood. Still smeared across his palms, forearms, his face and shoulder. Under his nails.

Gunter swallowed. He closed his hands, and his eyes. Envy bittered his blood.

What was it like?, he wondered.

To live with hands so unscathed.


End file.
